


the most fiendish of friends

by TheTartWitch



Series: Harry Potter Canon Divergence [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry Potter is beloved by fire, Harry can control fiendfyre, Harry defects to the goblins, Harry is very suspicious of everything, Harry might sort of support voldemort for a little bit, harry is done with your shit wizards, who knows dude, without knowing he's voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 19:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13841490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTartWitch/pseuds/TheTartWitch
Summary: Fiendfyre is Harry's best friend.





	the most fiendish of friends

With the Dursleys Harry did many chores. He washed the dishes after making and plating the food, he washed the laundry and hung it to dry on the line. He vacuumed, and dusted Petunia’s many beautiful but worthless decorations, and made sure Vernon had his paper and a cup of coffee when he got up in the morning. He weeded the garden, pruned the bushes, and kept the lawn trimmed to an almost unnatural perfection. 

His favorite chore was making up the fire in the winter. He knelt before the grate of the hearth, tugging it aside and palming the matches his aunt had given him just for this (she always counted them right after, making sure he hadn’t stolen any). He slipped one out into his pocket, placed his open palm against the wood in the pile in the middle of the hearth, and breathed. Fire bloomed around his fingers and climbed the firewood with a hunger. He’d sit for a moment, watching and pretending to make sure it wouldn’t go out too soon (the fire was  _ his _ and listened to  _ him _ , and never went out unless he said) before rising to his feet, handing the one-match-lighter book back to his aunt, and heading right for his cupboard, where he’d stash the match in the bag under the floorboards. He had nearly six hundred and twenty in a little side pouch by now, ready for when he decided he was leaving. He’d stored cans and things in another, though it was so heavy he’d no idea how he’d lift it when the time came. Water bottles and a small bag of toiletries resided in the other bags, and little packages of money he’d nicked from Aunt Petunia and random strangers on the street hidden throughout the whole lot just in case. 

Hogwarts is a blessing and a curse. He is taught how to lighten objects, how to shrink them down and blow them back up again. (He is taught the Cutting Curse by well-meaning upperclassmen; he will never worry about Aunt Marge’s terrible beasts ever again.) He is taught spells capable of making drinking water out of nothing, spells to clean the air you breathe and the water you drink. He is taught that goblins are fearsome and short-tempered but that they are nothing if not honorable. He is taught that adults lie to your face and to your back, and while speaking and saying nothing at all, and while they are themselves and while they are others. None of these are surprising lessons. Rather, he is grateful to have them confirmed.

He is taught that children are cruel when rejected, as Weasley is, and that they are cruel to hide fear or unhappiness, as Malfoy is, and that they are cruel because they don’t know any better, as Granger is with her questions on his mother and all the things he hasn’t done. He learns that when given the chance, he would rather be friends with none of them.

He is taught that adults can care genuinely for your safety and well-being and yet send you continuously into dangerous situations, as Dumbledore does. He is taught that adults are not impervious to childish feelings of dislike or awe and judging others by their parentage and not by their merits, as Snape and McGonagall do. He is taught that the people you can trust the most are those who know nothing real about you, because then they have nothing to hurt you with. 

He spends the year alone, unwilling to make friends and without the real connections needed to make allies. He practices his fire in the courtyard, building small piles of kindling and setting it ablaze with a touch, letting the flames climb his skin and purr against him like a well-mannered cat, lets it run wild through the grass and chase small prey through the trees. There are no illusions between them; the fire does not lie, does not say things it doesn’t mean. The fire always understands, always knows what he is trying to say and what will cheer him up. The fire can be anything, a cat or a bird or Professor Snape or Hagrid. The fire would do  _ anything _ for him, given the chance. The fire is, it seems at times, the only thing to feel any true, informed affection for him. 

He is caught eventually. Professor Quirrell with his distracting fake stutter and foul-smelling turban catches him by the lake one day, teaching the fire to withstand the water’s power over it. He seems surprised that the fire does not bite Harry’s fingers when he reaches for it or run away from his control. 

He grips Harry’s shoulder with deceptively strong fingers, attempting to tug him away from the fire, which follows like a puppy fearing loneliness. There are questions, of course, forming on his lips: how did you do that, how can you maintain control, where did you learn this? None emerge. Instead, he makes a decision: teach the boy. Draw him close. When the time comes, snap the trap shut around him. He will be yours, or he will be no one’s. 

For Harry, it is the only meaningful interaction he’s had with anyone since he was one year old.

He is called to the Headmaster’s office a few times. The Headmaster asks questions that don’t truly mean anything and eats candy. He is not in the room a few times when Harry arrives, as though inviting Harry to go looking through his things. Harry has no interest in that, though the phoenix is interesting. The bird eyes him with something approaching respect and he is the same in regards to its nonchalance to the cycle of dying and being reborn from its own ashes. They understand each other, and he is still in his seat when the Headmaster returns, seeming vaguely disappointed.

When Harry goes to fetch the stone at the end of the year, he is not doing it for feelings of glory, for protecting an artefact of great magical power and cultural value, for the rush of victory. He does it in the day, with his fire curling in his fingers and out into the air. His fire can be anything; hot enough to crack stone on a chessboard; birds to catch a key right out of the air (he doesn’t like flying; up in the air, there is very little to burn without dropping like a stone to the ground, so the fire cannot be with him) and deliver it to his hands; a beast of unimaginable strength, to rip the heart from a fully-grown mountain troll’s chest like an offering; a shield, to defend against the poisonous flames of another. His fire can be anything,  _ do  _ anything, with the only limit being what he can dream of. 

_ There is a stone _ , Quirrell had said,  _ in a mirror. I aim to fetch it for my master, as it can heal any wound or ailment. _ Quirrell spoke often of his master, who was not a good man and had been in an accident. Harry knew exactly who Quirrell was: the servant of a murderer, a liar, a criminal, who had tried to hurt someone and failed and been hurt himself.  _ He didn’t have your flames _ , Quirrell had said sadly, his hands stilling at the paper he was grading.  _ He lacked such strengths, for all that he  _ did  _ have. _

After tonight, Harry will never return to Quirrell’s side. After tonight, Harry will disappear. 

After tonight, Harry will never belong to anyone ever again.

There is an explosion of sound the next morning as word spreads through the castle: whatever was on the third floor has been stolen and the teachers are searching for it frantically. Harry Potter, the quiet, solemn, irreverent Slytherin, had not been in his dormitory when his Housemates woke. 

Nearing the afternoon, as they sit down for lunch in the Great Hall, there is a quiet ‘pop’ as the stolen object appears on Professor Quirrell’s plate, to the shock of the man and the teachers on either side of him. None of the students manage to get a true look at the contents of Quirrell’s plate, though rumors circulate that the object, blood-red and jagged like some kind of rock, was accompanied by a folded bit of paper, likely a letter or note.

_ Professor Quirrell, _

_ I will at least admit that you never truly deceived me. I was aware of your nature nearly the moment we met in the Hog’s Head. Your hand shook with excitement and malice rather than nerves; your stutter was faked; your touch did not linger overly long. You sought to change me to your whim, to calm me, to trick me into becoming your pet. This is my resistance. _

_ The stone is for you, a farewell gift and a thank you all in one. Give it to your master, donate it to charity, eat it. Its use, after this point, matters little to me. I do not intend to see you again, nor allow you to enact revenge for this little rebellion. I give this to you in a public setting and leave you to public justice. May you receive what you rightly deserve. _

 

_ Salutations,  _

_ Harry James Potter _

There is no one to stop him from slipping away, once he has rigged his little trap for Quirrell. He grabs his shrunken trunk, with his books and clothes and potions ingredients. There is a small satchel on his hip filled with any money left over from his singular trip to Gringotts, where he’d had a talk of much information with his account manager. Being the only remaining member of his family, all accounts were ultimately under his control, though it was recommended he accept the advice of his account manager, Griphook. The goblin was cruel, ruthless, and cared very little for Harry as a person. His main job was caring for Harry’s money. Harry found it a little comforting that he didn’t try to pretend Harry’s affairs mattered to him. 

His fire soars in the form of a bird, Fawkes’ likeness, to the gates and from there he summons the Knight Bus, a transportation often spoken of by Quirrell other than Apparition or Portkey.  _ Disgusting but serviceable _ , Quirrell had called it.  _ Like a bloody hotel on wheels, where there is no privacy and none of the furniture is secured. They serve food and drink, but don’t order either unless you’re looking to decorate your clothing and get not a bit of it in your mouth. _

He pulls up the hood of his grey traveler’s cloak and speaks with his voice modified. 

“Gringotts, Diagon Alley,” and Harry Potter is gone from Hogwarts. It will be a long while before he returns.

In the summer, the Dursleys receive a letter. 

_ Dursleys,  _

_ The boy Harry James Potter has been permanently removed from your care as it has been found to be less than satisfactory. Reply via owl if there are any complaints. _

 

  * __Gringotts, the Goblin Bank__



 

There are no complaints, and there is  _ certainly _ not any mailings by owl by the Dursleys, thank you very much, and that is how Harry Potter vanishes into nothing.

Deep in the belly of Gringotts Harry Potter unpacks his bag in his new dormitory room. He will attend classes staffed by wizards graduated from nearly every institution offering wizarding education in the world on all kinds of subjects. Perhaps it won’t be terribly structured, but an education offered by the goblins is nothing to scoff at. He’s closer to the ground here, at home with the dragons and their fire and the speeding carts and gruff countenances of the goblins. Besides, here in the goblin realm not even Voldemort could reach him.

**Author's Note:**

> Quirrell is arrested. Normal, law-abiding people don't just faces growing out of the back of their heads Minister Fudge, you know that right? Right.


End file.
